


We're All Give and Take

by sweetNsimple



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Characters, Brief Leon S. Kennedy/Claire Redfield, C-Virus Side Effects, Chris Feels, Chris Gives Up Control, Chris Redfield has PTSD, Chris is Retired, Chubby Chris Redfield, Depression, Domestic, Dominant Piers, F/M, Honorable Discharge for PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Jake's an Asshole, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Mention of Panic Attacks, Minor Original Character(s), No Actual Panic Attacks Occur, Original Characters - Freeform, Piers Nivans has PTSD, Piers Takes Control, Piers is Captain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Supportive Piers, They get better, Very brief Sherry Birkin/Jake Muller, Weight Gain, psychiatric help, submissive chris, supportive family, there are plants, there's a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 09:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/pseuds/sweetNsimple
Summary: “Dr. Stiggs doesn’t think our marriage is healthy,” Chris told Piers.  He was trying this, “Talk about what’s on your mind” thing that had never worked out for him in the past.Piers had told him to.  Chris had said he would try.  Chris was trying.Piers gave him a serious look over their dinner.  It was steaks and potatoes.  Chris had asked for it and had looked Piers in the eye when he did.  “What do you think?”Chris paused.  “It isn’t,” he finally admitted.  “But I like it.”~::~“Your jaw’s getting soft,” Piers said.Chris looked up.  Piers’ different colored eyes followed the angles of his face.  “I like it.  I like this softer-looking you.  Do you?”Chris thought.  “Yeah.  It feels good.”Changeable.  Not breakable.  Pliable.  Not fragile.





	

In the end, being honorably discharged from the B.S.A.A. wasn’t a whole lot different from a military honorable discharge.  He went through the same psych evals, sat through the same review boards, and said all the same shit.  He tried to say that there was nothing wrong.

He couldn’t look anyone in the eye.  He couldn’t ask the secretary to get him a cup of coffee without shaking.  He couldn’t get in a taxi because that would actually require _telling_ the driver where to go. 

He was a fucking mess and everyone knew it.  It was why he failed the evals.  It was why the review boards side eyed each other and whispered about how sad it was, that he had fallen so low. 

 _Broken_.

That was what he heard when they gave him their sad, pitying looks. 

He was broken and there wasn’t enough glue and duct tape in the world to put him back together.  In the end, all that was left was for him to gracefully bow out.  The fight against bioterrorism would continue, but not with him on the frontlines.  There was some distant chatter about having him come back as an instructor someday, but…

That required telling fresh blood what to do.

Chris Redfield couldn’t even tell his sister to put the toilet seat back up after she was done in the bathroom.  The bathroom in his own goddamned house. 

He shook.  Hands cold and wet and him staring at his knuckles like that would do something, but all he did was shake.

When he went to restaurants, he had to phrase everything he said as a question.

“Could I have the steak?”

“Could I have some coffee?”

“Is there a restroom?”

It helped a little bit, when he could ask instead of demand.  The easy command he had held as a captain was gone. 

Captain no longer.

He’d probably be real easy to take advantage of, too, if not for one obstacle.

“I’m Nivans.  Captain Piers Nivans of the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance Alpha Team.”  Piers picked the intruder up by the collar of his black long-sleeved shirt and shoved him against a wall.  “This house belongs to me and my husband and you are _trespassing_.”

“My husband I,” Chris quietly corrected from the couch.  He swabbed at the cut on his forearm with rubbing alcohol. 

“He killed my brother!” The intruder screeched, clawing at Piers. 

Chris closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, like his psychiatrist had told him to do.  Count each breath.  Hold it for four seconds.  Let it out for four seconds.  It was control over himself.  Over his own breathing.  The only thing he had to control was his breathing.  Nothing else was his responsibility.

Chris lost himself.  It happened sometimes.  He’d close his eyes and when he opened them again, time had passed.  Usually hours.  One time, a whole day had slipped away.

This time, a hand curving around his jaw brought him back.  Blinking his eyes open, he looked up into Piers’ handsome, scar-ridden face. 

One pearl-bright eye and one hazel eye searched him, looking painfully deep.  So deep that Chris almost needed to look away to save Piers from falling in and never being able to escape the black tar pits of the mess of Chris’s mind.

But he didn’t look away.  Couldn’t. 

Piers had told him not to.  Chris listened.

Piers had control.  Chris let him keep it.

Piers leaned down and kissed him carefully on the lips.  “I love you.  Go get ready for bed.”

Not a question.  A command. 

Chris listened.  Chris obeyed.

Chris completely ignored the whimpering, traumatized intruder still in the living room.  Probably still physically unharmed.  Piers was going to have to follow some legal channels and actually turn the intruder over to the authorities.  Couldn’t very well do that if the intruder was broken and mangled. 

“Chris,” Piers called after him, a demand for him to stop. 

Chris listened.  Chris stopped.

“Wash your hair tonight.”

And Chris did. 

He had no idea when the intruder was taken away, or who even took him.  He didn’t ask what Piers did to him.  Didn’t care to know, really. 

When Piers crawled into bed later that night, he rested his head on Chris’s shoulder and put his arm over Chris’s belly.  “You’re soft now,” Piers said.  “You never were before.”

Chris blinked at the ceiling.  “Do you want me to go on a diet?”

“No,” Piers answered fiercely.  And then, with pride.  “I want to see you grow.  I want to see you get comfortable in your own skin again.  I want to keep providing for you.  I want to see what the good life looks on you when you don’t have to worry about staying military fit or eating the bare necessities.”  Piers dipped beneath the covers and pushed up Chris’s shirt at the same time.

Chris sighed, a release of relief and pleasure, as Piers nipped at his distended belly.  Just a gentle slope, but still so different from the rock hard abs they had been.  There was some give in his arms and legs too, some that had never been there before.

Piers found it with his hands and rubbed, palm against Chris’s inner thigh.  He nibbled and sucked at the skin that might someday become love handles. 

“I did this to you,” Piers said from beneath the quilt, a phantom voice full of possessiveness and pride escaping from the depths like a dark curse.  “I did this.”

Chris’s eyes fluttered shut.  One hand went beneath the blankets to encourage Piers.  The other grabbed the headboard.  “Yeah,” he agreed.  “You did.”

And then he said nothing else for a long while.

Almost three days.

But that happened sometimes too.  At least Piers didn’t hold it against him or force him to talk.  Piers left him be quiet when he didn’t have the strength to talk.  Piers would put Chris in his extra large hoodie that smelled like him and was soft.  It was still tight on Chris, but it helped calm him down.

~::~

Piers fed him four meals a day. 

One breakfast, one lunch, and two dinners.  One dinner happened at exactly 1630 hours.  The second dinner happened between 2300 hours and 0300 hours depending on when Chris finally managed to fall asleep.  It wasn’t smart to eat a full meal ten minutes before finally passing out, but that was what he did most nights. 

Piers told him to.  He made the food and he told Chris to eat.  So Chris did.  Sometimes, Piers even spoon fed him.  Piers liked doing that.

He liked having control. 

Chris liked not having control.

Not that Piers was trying to keep him this way.  Piers understood that Chris had to improve, just a little bit.  He’d ask, “What do you want to eat?” And Chris would try to make a statement about what he wanted.  In the beginning, he had stared at the kitchen counter and shook.  Five months into retirement, he said, “Is beef stroganoff okay?” 

  Ten months into retirement, he said, “I would like pork chops, if we have them.”

Piers tried to make him control the little things.  He gave Chris control of the house.  When to clean it, what needed cleaned, how to decorate it, how to fix it up.  Chris didn’t have to tell the house to do anything.  Chris just did what needed done. 

It was easy to have control over something that wasn’t sentient, and it made Chris feel better to see the pride on his husband’s face when he got back from headquarters most days, finding that Chris had in some way changed something about their home without asking for permission first.

In the little ways, Piers gave Chris control.

But he just as easily kept control of Chris and every other matter in their lives, which was good.  Chris needed that.  His psychiatrist didn’t think so – she thought that his arrangement with his husband was unhealthy, especially given how… “unstable” Piers was.

“Unstable?” Chris had asked, staring at his hands clasped between his knees.  He used to stand up tall and strong, shoulders thrown back.  Now he hunched in.  Made himself look smaller.  Didn’t work a lot.  He was a big guy

And he was getting bigger.  He had gone up a shirt size and was wearing sweat pants until his new jeans came in.  Nothing huge.  Small changes.  Small changes over time to adapt to his environment.  Survival. 

He was full – felt full – and it helped with the session because he didn’t think that the psychiatrist could cut him open and find empty darkness inside.  He had softness to him now.  Malleable instead of breakable.  Wouldn’t shatter under pressure, but morph to fit.  Wouldn’t rip apart, but stretch. 

His psychiatrist said nothing about the extra pounds.  She seemed to know something about retirement and gaining weight that he didn’t because she never even looked concerned.  He knew what concern looked like on her.  When he’d been getting drunk, she’d talk about it. 

This was better to her.  Better for him too. 

Piers was also happy.

“Unstable in the sense that he might not always have control over himself,” she explained.  She was tall and thin with broad shoulders.  One mile-long leg was crossed over the other, feet ending in pointed shoes.  She could probably take him on in a fight.  She had the look in her eyes that he’d seen in a lot of soldiers.  She’d gone through the fire and come out the other side a different person. 

That was probably why he was talking with her.  It was hard to talk to someone who’d never been on the frontlines and expect them to understand.  Demeaning.  Infuriating.  Frustrating.  But she’d been there – not with the BSAA.  Probably Air Force, he thought.  Maybe Army. 

There was a scar running from her left temple down to her chin, bisecting her upper and bottom lip.  He stared at it sometimes.  Reminded himself that it was human to scar.  She never told him to stop.

“He has total control,” Chris said.  He didn’t add, _Over everything_ , or _over me_.  But they danced in the air anyway and her long face tightened into a frown. 

“What happens if he loses control?”

She asked the hard questions, which he hated and liked.  He didn’t want to think about it, but he knew he had to.

What would happen then?

“That’ll be up to him,” he finally answered. 

And it would be. 

“Even if leaving it up to him endangers your life?”

Silence.

But they both knew the answer was _yes_. 

~::~

“Dr. Stiggs doesn’t think our marriage is healthy,” Chris told Piers.  He was trying this, “Talk about what’s on your mind” thing that had never worked out for him in the past.

Piers had told him to.  Chris had said he would try.  Chris was trying.

Piers gave him a serious look over their dinner.  It was steaks and potatoes.  Chris had asked for it and had looked Piers in the eye when he did.  “What do you think?”

Chris paused.  “It isn’t,” he finally admitted.  “But I like it.”

“Am I forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do?” Piers asked.  He didn’t accuse or get angry.  He asked like he really wanted to know and was willing to change if he had to.

Change.  Adapt.  Survive. 

Chris shook his head.  “No.  I like this.”

“You’ll tell me if I do,” he said.  Ordered.  Commanded.

He didn’t ask.

It wasn’t a question, so Chris didn’t answer.  Silence was an answer.  It meant he would do as he was told.

And he would. 

“Your jaw’s getting soft,” Piers said. 

Chris looked up.  Piers’ different colored eyes followed the angles of his face.  “I like it.  I like this softer-looking you.  Do you?”

Chris thought.  “Yeah.  It feels good.”

Changeable.  Not breakable.  Pliable.  Not fragile. 

“You’ve been talking more too.”  Piers took their cleared plates to the sink.  Over his shoulder, he said, “What do you want tonight?”

Chris wondered.  Food?  Sex?  Sleep?

“Can we watch a movie?”

Get tangled on the couch with a blanket and hot chocolate.  Feel warm and affectionate and listen to the background noises of something meaningless while Piers breathed and lived beneath his ear.

It had been five weeks since they last had sex.  Chris wondered when Piers would get frustrated.  He was young and healthy – relatively speaking.  Healthy for what he was now.  Chris almost changed his mind, just to get the sex out of the way, before he stopped himself.

He’d said he wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to do.  He didn’t feel like having sex yet. 

Didn’t mean anything in the end.  Piers smiled at him over his shoulder, looking pleased.  Looking _happy_.

“That sounds great.  What do you want to watch?”

Chris’s hands shook.  Too many choices in a day did that.  There was low-grade panic making his thoughts buzz, but he told himself that this would be the last decision he’d make and then he could give all control back to Piers.  It would be fine.  He just had to hold out a little while longer.

“A cartoon?”

Piers nodded.  “I’ll put on _Dumbo_.”

It was a safe choice.  No one died in _Dumbo_.  Mom and child get separated.  Child gets his feelings hurt.  Child gets a cool friend and figures out that he can do something really awesome with his ears.  Child gets reunited with mom. 

Safe.  All the pain gets smoothed away.

Chris nodded.  “I like that.”

Piers kissed the corner of his mouth.  “I know you do.  Go get the blanket and I’ll get the hot chocolate started.”

Chris moved into action, having been given an order.  Piers commanded.

Chris listened.  He obeyed.

And it worked for them.

~::~

Chris was thirteen months into retirement and he looked his psychiatrist in the eye and said, “No more putting down my husband.”

Dr. Stiggs froze.  In a moment, she smiled brilliantly and made a note on her iPad.  “Alright.”

And she stopped.

He made a statement.  A demand.  And she listened.  It threw him off, especially since he hadn’t really meant to tell her to do anything.  He shook the rest of the session, which she knowingly cut short.  She called his husband to let him know that Chris needed pick up early.  Dr. Stiggs stayed with him until Piers arrived at the agency, but left before Piers appeared in the waiting room. 

She would stop talking about how unstable Piers was, because it was progress that Chris had even told her to stop doing something he didn’t like.  It didn’t change the way she thought, though. 

She still thought Piers was dangerous.  Which was funny.  She wasn’t even part of the BSAA, but they thought an awful lot alike.

The BSAA may have promoted Piers and given him his own team, but it was just as much to have six other guns pointed at him during missions than to celebrate his success out in the field and his semi-recovery from the virus.

The virus was a part of him now, but not the only part.  It influenced without controlling.  Piers felt emotions harder than ever before.  Anger, jealousy, fear, pain – all feeling was intensified.

But so was love and adoration and camaraderie.

The infection had the added bonus of bioelectric discharge, using his right arm like a conductor.  Useful out in the field.  Heightened sense of smell meant to that Piers smelled the BOWs before the rest of the team saw or heard them.  A real gift for a captain to have.

Piers’ team stood by him now more than against him, but they knew their orders just as well as Piers knew their orders: If Piers lost control, if Piers changed, if Piers mutated…

Shoot to kill.

Dr. Stiggs, if she was still out in the field, would have followed those orders, Chris thought.  A good soldier.

Chris went home with Piers and Piers asked him what he wanted.

“Can we have dinner?” he asked, even though it was only 1600 hours. 

Piers kissed him and said that they absolutely could.  He made them a quick, messy dinner of grilled cheese and turkey sandwiches and tomato soup with crackers.  He gave Chris a tall glass of milk with it. 

Chris was hungry again by midnight and not tired at all, so Piers made a second dinner of spaghetti and fed it to Chris.

It was a good day.  Chris was almost happy.

~::~

The problem with everyone thinking that Piers was the bad guy was that everyone was sympathetic with Chris.  No one asked Piers how he was doing.  If it was stressful to have a husband with severe PTSD who wouldn’t even tell the cashier at the supermarket down the street that he didn’t want plastic bags because he had brought his own reusable ones.

No one asked if Piers was okay, having gone two months without sex.  No one asked if Piers was okay, having a husband with insomnia.  No one asked if Piers was okay, having a husband with night terrors.  No one asked if Piers was okay, having a husband in therapy.  No one asked Piers much of anything to do with his wellbeing.

They asked if Chris was okay, having a husband that was partly not even human anymore.  They asked if Chris was okay, not having total control over his life because Piers was so demanding.  They asked if Chris was okay, having gained weight.  They asked if Chris was okay, having dark bags under his eyes.

Piers had the same dark bags under his eyes and the same night terrors.  He had the nightmares that he would lose control in the middle of the night, or while making love to Chris.  He had the same thought that, one day, he might tear Chris apart in a fit of uncontrollable rage.  He thought, someday, he might be inside of Chris, making Chris feel good, and then take his right hand and put it through Chris’s chest, tearing him open while he continued to make love to Chris’s mangled body.

Piers had panic attacks.  He hid in the bathroom and threw up until it was nothing but stomach acid.  Piers had fears.

But no one asked Piers how he was doing. 

Actually.

There were _some_ people who asked.

“How are you holding up?” Asked Claire Redfield, Chris’s sister.  She looked tired too.  Had seen a lot of shit.  She still smiled for him.  “It can’t be easy, both of you having issues.”

“I’m doing good,” he said.  Usually, he was.  It helped when he had total control.  Sometimes, he had to give up control so that Chris could relearn how to take it.  He did it for Chris’s wellbeing, but he hated it.  When he had total control, nothing could go wrong.

But he did it.  Because he loved Chris and he wanted his husband to get better.  He wanted something more than the dark shadows in Chris’s brown eyes.  He wanted some spark of life back in his husband.

It was coming back to Chris, slowly. 

“You’re not,” Claire said, and pulled him into a hug.  The number of people who hugged him could all be counted on one hand.  The only other person beside Claire and Chris was his mother, but it was only when she was crying.

“If you need a break, I can stay with Chris for a few days,” she said.  “You can take a break from work and home and go out.  Do something fun, maybe.”

He almost smiled.  He wrapped both arms around her – one normal and one not.  He said, “This _is_ fun for me.”

And it was, usually.  Taking command of Chris was calming.  Soothing to his nerves.  Chris was a big man, bigger now that he was steadily gaining weight.  He easily had more combat and command experience.  But he gave so easily to Piers.  He was so sweet for Piers, so affectionate and needy, like a huge hunting dog that thought they were a tiny lapdog. 

But, maybe.  Maybe Piers would like a night to get outside and look at the sky instead of staying indoors, waiting for Chris to start crying.  He’d married Chris, knowing that the man wasn’t all in one piece, and he didn’t regret a single damn thing.

But he’d like some fresh air.  A night out that didn’t involve a mission halfway across the world where his life and the lives of his team were in danger.  Claire stayed with Chris during those missions, too. 

He thought about it and she saw it.  “Just for tonight, then,” she cajoled, smiling.  “I’d like to spend some time with my big brother without his hunky husband hanging around, stealing his attention.”

“What about your hunky husband?” Piers teased.

Leon S. Kennedy wandered into the kitchen like he had been summoned.  Claire, made of sunshine and light despite the darkness and loss of her adult life, probably deserved a Hell of a lot better than Leon’s silent and judging silence. 

Piers didn’t care for him, but he wasn’t going to judge because Claire was a grown adult woman who could probably kick his ass if she wanted to, virus or no virus.

“We’re staying?” Leon asked her.  He didn’t eye down Piers with his hand near his gun anymore, which was an improvement.  More often now, he even talked to Piers like he wasn’t a loose end.

“For tonight,” Claire decided.

She decided for herself, which irked Piers.  He squished the slight annoyance he felt, though.  It was weird and different to have someone else in his and Chris’s home, especially people capable of making such big decisions casually and without his input.  Piers wasn’t used to it, not having to make the final choice. 

It was unsettling.  He didn’t like it.  But, again, she was a grown adult woman who could make her own choices.  She wasn’t a whole person after everything she had been through either, but she was missing pieces in places different from her brother.  She didn’t need control, naturally followed in a crowd, but she was a loner and didn’t normally have someone telling her what to do all the time either.

It was probably what made her and Leon so good together.  One of the things that made them good together.  It probably helped that they were both asexual, which Piers thought must not happen all that often.  But, more importantly, it was their independence.  They came together once in a blue moon and then separated, both used to the solitude.  Trusting each other to survive until next time.

It was how they worked.  And they didn’t question the way Piers and Chris worked.  It was good enough.

~::~

When Piers came back the next morning, Chris was already awake.  Not that Claire and Leon knew.  They were also awake, but had descended downstairs to start the day.  Chris hid in their bedroom.  He loved his sister and didn’t mind Leon, but Piers could tell as soon as he entered their room that it was a Bad Day and that Chris didn’t want other people around.  The room was incredibly warm and Chris had all the blankets piled on top of himself.  The curtains were drawn, letting only thin shafts of light through that hit the back of Chris’s self-made mound.  It was absolutely silent, even the sound of Chris’s breathing muted.  Minimal movement.

Piers went back downstairs and talked to Claire and Leon for a while before getting them out the door.  After that, he laid down on the couch and waited. 

Letting his eyes close, he drifted off, somewhere between aware and not.  He focused on his breathing.  Tuned into himself and what he was feeling.  He felt the ebb of energy down his right arm.  Felt the throbbing of the right side of his face that never really stopped.  He felt the writhing of scar tissue across the right side of his chest.  Scar tissue shouldn’t move like tortured snakes, but the contraction and release of deformed muscles was like something slithering right beneath the glossy white skin. 

He felt his control like a tether around the wild monster struggling in the back of his mind.  It would never escape.  He took his medication religiously, every morning and evening.  He had total control over himself and his surroundings.  He was in charge.  He was in command.  He was Captain Piers Nivans of the BSAA Alpha Team.  He was –

A weight settled down on top of him, very heavy and very warm.

He was someone’s husband.

Without complaint, he wrapped his arms around Chris’s bulk.  Opening his eyes slowly, he saw that the curtains in the living room had been closed.  Even so, some pale light sifted through.  He could assume that it was later in the evening, but before dark. 

Chris said nothing.  He laid on top of Piers and he breathed.  He existed.  Somedays, that was all he could do.

Piers ran his hand through his husband’s hair and cherished him.

~::~

At two years after Chris’s retirement, he was a somewhat larger man.  There were dips in his back between his shoulders and hips.  His face and jaw was softened by fat, but without a double chin.  His sculpted pecs had become rounder, comfortable breasts.  The strong indication of muscle was still apparent in his legs and arms, and he was still able to complete his exercise regimen every other day, but all angles had been smoothed away.  It made him look kinder.  It made him look gentler. 

Sometimes, he looked in the mirror and smiled.  He looked like someone who should take up something gentle but meaningful, like gardening or crocheting.  Make things, maybe.  Not take or order, but create.

He brought it up with Piers and Piers got him a starter kit for strawberries, just to see how Chris would do with plants.  Smart idea.  He also got Chris a small aloe vera.  Useful plants.  Not just pretty, but with purpose.

Chris took care of the plants like children, studiously seeing to their care.  It led to Piers suggesting that they get a pet.  Something from an animal shelter.

They found an older dog that was blind in one eye and missing a hind leg.  A hit and run accident.  The owners had turned over the dog after realizing they didn’t have the resources or time for caring for him anymore.  He didn’t bark, but also was not good with strangers.  He would take some time to open up to Piers and Chris.

“But, don’t worry,” the volunteer hastily went on, openly hopeful about getting Porky – the dog – out of the shelter before they had to put him down, “once he gets used to you, you could never ask for a better friend.”

He fit right in with Chris and Piers and their needs.

Chris was Porky’s primary caretaker.  He took care of his exercise and diet.  He took care of his vet appointments and his grooming.  He taught Porky tricks and made him home-baked treats. 

But Porky still opened up to Piers first.  Rolled over and submitted, like he knew who the true alpha was.  And Porky did.  It pleased Piers, in the dark corners of his mind he never talked about. 

Chris was his and Porky was his.  The plants – meh.  If he stretched it, he could say they were his too, but he was largely okay with those being Chris’s. 

Porky looked to Piers every time before he did a trick for Chris.  He looked to Piers every time when Chris asked if he wanted to go for a walk.  He looked to Piers every time he had to take a bath or go to an appointment.

Chris cared for him, but Piers was master.

Chris liked that too.  Liked that Porky listened to him, but was totally subservient to Piers, like Chris was.

Chris liked that a lot.  It meant that, if Chris made the wrong call, Piers had the power to stop him. 

But he also liked that there were things he could do for himself, like give Porky a bath. 

The first time Piers tried to, Porky splashed water everywhere and covered Piers in suds.

Chris couldn’t remember the last time he laughed so hard.

~::~

Chris turned over in bed and kissed the corner of Piers’ jaw.  “I’m fat,” he said.

“And healthy,” Piers added, voice very quiet and eyes hidden under his left arm.  “And fucking gorgeous.”  Because being fat was not an exception.  Piers looked at him with the same heat he had years ago. 

Even if it had been seven weeks since the last time they had sex.  The need hit Chris sporadically.  Sometimes, he went around in a state of arousal for a week straight.  Other times, the opposite.  His libido was all over the place.

But Piers was patient.  Piers loved sex, loved to dominate Chris in bed, and he eagerly did so whenever Chris was in the mood.  Out of the mood, Piers didn’t even push.  Didn’t even mention it.  He waited for Chris to come to him.  If he advanced and Chris wasn’t into it, Piers backed off.

Today, Chris rubbed against Piers thigh and kissed down the glossy white scar tissue of Piers’ neck to his collarbone. 

Piers sighed, pleased but tense, before he very gently stopped Chris.

“Maybe tonight,” Piers said.  “But not right now.”

That was new.  Chris searched Piers’ face, carefully moving his arm out of the way.  There was strain.  His face was tight with pain, left eye twitching.  His right eye leaked.  His right hand was curled close to his chest and his hand was forcefully limp. 

It was a Bad Day, Chris realized.  Piers’ body was hurting.  A lot.

Chris nodded and settled down.  “Do you want your pain meds with your morning meds?”

“Yes,” Piers said.  Chris quickly left and then returned, a glass of water also in hand.  Piers choked it all down, tears  falling down both cheeks now. 

When Chris slipped back into bed, Piers instantly hid his face under Chris’s jaw, shaking.  “Let’s sleep a little while longer,” Piers said.  His voice was still very quiet.

Chris wasn’t at all tired, but he still closed his eyes and tried. 

Later toward midday, Piers’ pain was bad enough that he threw up over the side of the bed.  Chris got him more pain meds and water and pressed a cold compress to Piers’ skin while his husband groaned and growled and whimpered against him.  He left only to take Porky for a walk.  Coming back, he pointed at the spot in front of the bed and Porky laid down.  Porky was not allowed on the bed when Piers was having a Bad Day because the smell of dog made it worse.

Slipping back into bed, Piers instantly pressed against him and grabbed hold in his sleep.  Painfully tight.  It didn’t matter, though.  It wasn’t important.  Chris held him back and stared at the opposite wall until the light behind the curtain disappeared.

It was late in the evening when Piers finally improved, but Chris wasn’t in the mood anymore.

Piers laughed, a startling sound, and said, “Figures.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris apologized, ashamed of his body.

“Don’t be.”  Piers kissed him, which tasted bad since Piers had never brushed his teeth in the morning or after he had thrown up.  His cheeks were salty.  “It happens.”

“I love you,” Chris said.

“Love you too,” Piers answered.  “Get Porky up here.”

Chris patted his thigh and Porky hopped up.  Laying down at the end of the table, he sighed and licked Piers’ feet through the blanket.

“Good boy,” Piers said.

They didn’t eat breakfast until almost 2300 hours, but that was alright. 

~::~

“Do you believe you have improved since the first time you came into this room?” Dr. Stiggs asked.

“Yeah,” Chris said, looking her in the eye.  “I do.”

~::~

“I don’t want plastic bags,” he told the cashier.  He held up his bag that was full of reusable bags.  A conundrum.  Claire had gotten them for him over the years.  “I have my own.”

“Oh,” said the teenager, looking awkward.  It took a moment for her to redirect herself.  “Okay.”

~::~

“I want the double cheeseburger with fries,” Chris told the waiter at the nice little hole in the wall restaurant Piers and he had found.  “Pickles on the side.”

“Anything to drink?” the waiter asked.

But Chris was tired of taking control.  He looked to Piers.

Piers smiled, casual with his control.  “Two cokes,” he said.

Chris smiled back.

~::~

The mood had come back.  He turned over in bed and nibbled on the white scar tissue stretched over Piers’ collarbone.  Piers growled and made a grab for Chris’s pudgy sides.

“You know why these are called love handles?” Piers asked.

He then proceeded to show Chris.  Vigorously.  In bed.  In the shower.  Over the kitchen table.  All over a span of two days.

It was a shock to both of them when Chris was still in the mood three weeks later.  Not hyper, but never not open to suggestion. 

Three years after retirement, Dr. Stiggs claimed that Chris had reclaimed a healthy sexual appetite.

“Everyone wants sex, Chris,” she said.  “As you improved, this was bound to happen.”

“That’s not true,” Chris said, looking her in the eye.  “My baby sister and her husband are asexual and they don’t have sex.”

Dr. Stiggs tipped her head in acknowledgement.  “A lot of people want sex,” she corrected. 

She was pleased with his eye contact. 

“How are you sleeping at night?”

“I’m getting an average of five hours.”

She smiled.  “Improvement all around.”

~::~

They had a barbeque.  Not a lot of people were invited.  Piers almost invited his family, but he hadn’t talked to them in over a year.  They stared at the scars.  They were afraid.  His mom never stopped crying.  It was easier to not see them.

But Claire and Leon were there.  That asshole Jake that Piers hated to sometimes work with was making a goddamned nuisance of himself.  Sherry stuck close to Claire and Leon, happy to be present. 

Piers liked Sherry.  She was nice.  The fact that she was dating Jake aside, she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders.

Porky was wandering around, begging for scraps of food with one sad brown eye and one leaky white eye that even got Leon slipping him a hot dog or three.  Piers pretended not to see.

For Leon’s sake more than Porky’s.  Leon had a reputation to uphold.

Jake materialized almost out of thin air with a handful of lavender, which he handed to Sherry.  “They were the prettiest they had in the garden.”

“Because the garden’s meant to be useful, not pretty, asshole,” Piers snapped, enraged on Chris’s behalf for all of five seconds. 

But then Chris looked up from the grill, saw what had happened, and smiled.  His soft edges made him look as forgiving as a cool spring shower after a heatwave.  “Those help me with my insomnia and depression.  They’ll help you too.  I can tell you how to put them in your tea if you want.”

Sherry smiled.  “That would be nice.  I’m not getting a lot of sleep these days.”

Jake gave the lavender a long, thoughtful look.  “How do you grow’em?”

Chris talked for much longer than he usually did. 

It was hard to be upset after that.

~::~

They still had nights where they didn’t sleep.  They still had night terrors attack them when they least expected it.  Piers still felt the monster in the back of his mind, scratching and clawing for escape, eyeing Chris hungrily.

Piers wasn’t totally human anymore, but that didn’t stop him from doing a damn thing.  He was a captain of the BSAA.  He had a husband who he loved.  He had a dog that he adored.  He had friends who were sometimes insufferable assholes.  He had control. 

And his husband loved giving him control.  Sometimes, though, Chris spoke up for himself.

“Marry me again,” Chris told him.  Not asked.  He looked Piers in the eye.  He had been in retirement for five years. 

“Sounds like a good idea for an anniversary,” Piers decided.  “You know where?”

Chris looked away, a sign that he didn’t want to make any more decisions.

That was fine, though.

Piers knew exactly what to do next.

~::~

END.

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to have this thing for Chris giving up control of his life to Piers, who just moseys on in with his C-Virus adaptations and knows what to do and how to defend them both. I don't know why I do this, but I do. Also, I make really long one-shots. I do not like making these into chapter stories, even though this one is definitely long enough for it. If I am missing a tag, please let me know! Or if you spot any inconsistencies, that would be nice as well.
> 
> Thank you! Have a lovely day.


End file.
